


Or Am I Dreaming?

by cherry3point14



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Genie/Djinn, Angst, But like here have a spoiler, Death, Djinn AU Sam is a bit of a dick tbh, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, However it does happen, I tagged this CHARACTER DEATH, In fact this particular Djinn is a bit of a dick, LOOK OK HEAR ME OUT, Love, NOBODY STAYS DEAD OK, Nobody stays dead, all the things, because I am a kind soul, but it's supernatural, djinn, just go with me here, so I tagged it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-08 18:24:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15935843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherry3point14/pseuds/cherry3point14
Summary: Written from the below prompt (by nonnie on Tumblr):Reader is captured by a Djinn, the boys finally find her and as Dean checks for a pulse her eyes flutter open. “There’s my girl”.(Reading that prompt back I'm just like, BIG SIGH, a lot happens before this prompt does)





	Or Am I Dreaming?

**Author's Note:**

> Song inspos that guided my path:  
> Whitesnake - Is this love?  
> Track and Field - Running Up That Hill (WHERE MY WAREHOUSE 13 BUDS AT?!?) 
> 
> But yeah I mean, just prepare yourselves.

Everybody daydreams sometimes. Everybody wonders what their life would be if they were braver or smarter or more talented. From wondering the reactions of your friends if you dyed your hair purple to wondering if you’d be a cool rock star or one of those aloof musicians too good for their fans. Everyone also has one the little dreams where it's just one tiny thing that changed. These aren’t the big fanciful daydreams, they’re the quiet little adjustments to the life you already know.

Maybe it’s an argument with an ex where you could have said more. Or it’s a decision to major in business instead of art like you’d wanted to.

For you though, it’s a night in March five years ago.

 

> _It shouldn’t be this cold, the temperature feels wintery even though it’s technically spring. Although when you’re on the road as much as you are it’s difficult to rely on the weather. You’ve seen snow in April and blistering sunshine in December. That’s just the way it is sometimes when you’re in the North East one week and then down South the next._
> 
> _This is fucking freezing though and every gust of cold wind that slips down the collar of your jacket makes you ask yourself why you decided to let Dean and his pouty lips convince you to be outside._
> 
> _If he had any idea the real power those lips of his had over you then you’d be in more trouble than you are. Thankfully he doesn’t so his control is limited to stupid ideas like going for a drive, drinking beer and looking at the stars. The idea itself isn’t stupid except, oh wait, it’s cold enough that the tip of your nose is starting to go numb. And you can smell rain. If it rains neither of these Neanderthals will hear the end of it._
> 
> _Dean has pulled into this, admittedly, picturesque field. The kind where they film movies. Either this is where the protagonists fall in love or it’s where the dumb high schoolers get murdered. Regardless, it’s pretty enough. You don’t notice them discuss it but you find yourself standing in the middle of them, butt pressed against the warm metal of the car, for all the driving she’s done today, and a Winchester either side, each offering a little heat. Not enough but some. You stop complaining about long enough that you’re all halfway through your second beers when a comfortable silence envelops the three of you._
> 
> _Even if rain is coming, and it is because your nose never lies, the clouds are scattered enough that stars peek through. The moon hangs low and almost full like it’s too heavy to hold itself up any higher. It really is a beautiful night. You team up with hunters from time to time but usually, celebrations are limited to drinks in a bar, if they happen at all. So, you never expect the Winchesters to do this. Beer and the night sky and silence. You’d call them saps if this wasn’t one of the most peaceful, easy nights of your life._
> 
> _However, all good things must come to an end and the quiet is spoiled by this surprised noise that spills out of you as an unexpected chill tickles the back of your neck.  
>  _
> 
> _“It’s not that fucking cold sweetheart.” The words are carried by the smile he’s wearing.  
>  _
> 
> _You defend yourself with no real argument since it is that cold, “I didn’t say anything!”_
> 
> _It’s Sam who rolls his eyes and, before the bickering can get too far, grabs a blanket from the back seat. You smile up at him as you wrap it around your shoulders, “thanks, Sam. At least one of you has some manners.”_
> 
> _Sam knows the game you’re playing isn’t with him so beyond returning your smile he stays silent and lets your tease hit it’s intended target._
> 
> _“I’ve got manners up the wazoo. Sammy’s just babying you.”_
> 
> _You grumble and snuggle the thick material tighter about yourself, making sure to leave as few gaps as possible for errant winds. It takes a few minutes, but eventually, you’re a somewhat acceptable temperature, apart from your nose that you’re sure is pink by now._
> 
> _You all stand against that car until the beers run out, which Dean says is quicker than usual considering you’re there. There’s something wordlessly sweet thinking about Sam and Dean doing this together without you to get in the way._
> 
> _The drive back to the motel is the opposite of the field in every way. It’s loud rock music and all of you singing along. It’s Dean getting mad when you don’t know the words and decide to make up noises instead, and then Sam laughing to encourage you. The inside of the car buzzes like all the things that hadn’t been said under the stars were waiting to be joked about once you were back on the road._
> 
> _The Impala fits into the space next to your van perfectly fine but you still catch Dean’s grimace at your vehicle. It’s expected by now. What’s unexpected is for him to open your door and hold his hand out for you._
> 
> _“What the hell?” You’re cowering from his outstretched palm as if he’s diseased._
> 
> _He shoves it a little further into the car, “showing off my manners doll. Walk you to your door?”_
> 
> _“But who’s going to walk me?!” Sam clucks from the passenger side. He wanders off before either of you can answer though. A slight sway in his gait and a hand waving in the air dramatically, which looks ridiculous on the tallest Winchester making you giggle as you finally take Dean’s hand and let him guide you out of the backseat.  
>  _
> 
> _This is the moment it occurs to you that it’s very possible you’ve never touched Dean’s hand before. You’ve only hunted with them a few times when your paths cross. Today was one such occasion. Sure, he might have wrapped a hand around your arm to push you out of the way before or you might have curled your hand into a fist and punched him for pushing you, but this is different. Your small hand in his, his thumb resting over your knuckles and keeping you trapped in him. It’s this strange turn of intimacy that goes beyond your crush on him. This is more than a physical attraction, it’s a moment. It’s as earnest as the silence of the field and it almost seems endless. That is until he ends it.  
>  _
> 
> _He probably didn’t notice. He’s still playing the game, demonstrating his over the top manners as he takes your hand and slips it through his arm.  
>  _
> 
> _“C’mon sweetheart. Some of us need our beauty sleep.”_
> 
> _You let him guide you to your door, a few down from theirs, trying to forget the feeling of his calloused fingers holding you and how right it felt. “I hope you’re not implying I need my beauty sleep?” Even your attempts to be jokingly indignant sound vaguely genuine.  
>  _
> 
> _“Course not. You shouldn’t sleep at all, ‘s not fair to anyone else.”_
> 
> _It’s not the first time Dean has thrown you a cheesy line. The first time was the night you met and realized you might be in trouble with him. But it’s the first time his line hasn’t made you groan and call him a dweeb. You can’t find it in yourself to play the game right now. There’s something more than a chill lingering in the air when you finally reach the door. Pent-up energy. Something tells you that it’s now or never. The perfect storm of beers and bad decisions. You know that right now is when you should reach up onto the tips of your toes and kiss him._
> 
> _“Get inside before you get cold again.”  
>  _
> 
> _The bubble is punctured by his words. Your courage deflates in your chest and he doesn’t even know what he’s done. He winks and smiles and walks away with no clue, leaving you to stumble into your room with no idea when you stopped breathing._

It had been five-ish months later when you’d ran into them again. You’d ended up working two cases back to back and that turned into an open invitation to stick together. Everything becomes strangely official when they inherit the bunker. Your van, begrudgingly, gets a parking spot in the garage and you, much more willingly, get your own room. From then on, your spot is in the back seat of the Impala, along with your crush.

As much as you’ve buried your feelings it doesn’t stop you reliving that night when you’re tucked up in bed with nothing but a wall separating you.

* * *

Hunting is not a science no matter what Sam says. It’s an art. And like all art sometimes the colors bleed together.

You’re hunting a Wendigo, it should be gravy. The boys are treating it practically like a mini vacation, nothing but an excuse to go camping. Although you theorize it’s actually an excuse for them to ensure you meet your demise being eaten alive by goddamn mosquitoes.

Either way, you all know what you’re doing. And Sam kills the sucker the second night. Everyone had a few bumps and scratches but you’re all relatively unharmed and it’s a generally good day.

Which is the first sign something is wrong.

Two people are still missing so it’s not a hopeful situation but you’ve still all split up to try and find them. Sam’s taking the dangerous, rocky passes. Dean is scoping out the lowland since he’s the fastest at sweeping forests. And you’re checking out the most likely of all the places for a Wendigo to store its food for winter, the caves hidden beyond the trails. There’s a series of three or four that, as a far as the ranger said, are linked together so it shouldn’t take long.

As soon as you’re in the cave the air turns wet and dank, musty like only a cave can be. Your flashlight stops you from tripping anywhere but it’s only a tiny beam of light in a deep pool of darkness. You can illuminate the ground you’re stepping on or the depths that you’re actually heading into, not both. You don’t want to trip, so the choice seems obvious.

It’s silent anyway. The Wendigo is dead. The worst you expect to find is two dead bodies you can’t save.

You probably go deeper than you should, but the caves are linked anyway. You’ll just tumble out of a different entrance at some point. It’s maybe ten minutes in when you start to wonder if they’re as linked as you were lead to believe. Pulling out your phone to confirm the information reveals that, surprise surprise, there’s no signal this deep in the solid caverns so now you’re lost and potentially wasting your goddamn time. The boys might have found the missing people somewhere else already.

In fact, they have found the missing people, one is still alive, but you don’t know that.

The blackness surrounding you is disorientating. You doubt which way you came from or which way you were walking. Obviously, you do the stupidest thing you can at that point and turn around a few times like something in the dark will jog your memory, which only confuses you because everything is the same endless nothing.

You’re a hunter, you’re not afraid of the dark, you’re afraid of the things in the dark and there’s a difference. Or there would be if this darkness were like any other. Even after all the time you’ve been in here, your eyes haven’t adjusted, your vision is still only that which your torch shines on.

In your arrogance about how easy this task would be you’ve forgotten that it’s not just Wendigo’s that live out in the back of beyond. Once upon a time caves used to be the breeding ground for all other kinds of supernatural creatures.

Like ones with blue eyes that appear in front of your face. Blue, glowing eyes that are the only bright spot in the consuming blackness as a hand spreads over your forehead.

* * *

There are lips against your back, trailing upwards and pressing soft kisses on your skin until they reach your neck. Once there the face nuzzles into you, stubble trickling your sensitive spots and kisses that become more, biting and sucking enough to wake even the heaviest of sleepers.

You sit up abruptly only to find that you’re in nothing but underwear as the sheets that had covered you slide down your body.  

“Where’s the fire? Come back to bed.” His hands paw at you from the pillow he’s still laying on, trying to drag you back into the memory foam softness of the bed.

You turn your head slowly, because you’re shocked, not to let your eyes drag along his body where the sheets barely cover his hips.  

It’s Dean. Dean’s worn fingers trailing over your arms. Dean’s pleading whines. Dean’s lips that had woken you up in the first place.

“What are you doing in my bed?”

Where he was laying on his side, apparently big spooning you, he rolls onto his back with a sleepy, amused grin, “it’s been a few years but if you really want to play that game this is technically my bed.”

He’s right. You hadn’t noticed at first because the surroundings are an eclectic mix of you both. His weapons still adorn the walls but there are tons of pictures amongst them. All the things that used to be in your room, your few mementos from your childhood, are crammed in too. The room looks neither yours or his, it’s both of you.

“What the fuck.” You jump out of the sheets and across the room reaching for the first pants and t-shirt your desperate hands can find. Not chancing a look back at Dean as you slip into clothes, because then it would be real.

You make it two steps to the door before you realize you’re his too large t-shirt.

Crap. You can hear shuffling behind you where he’s getting up himself so there’s no time to grab something else. You take off in a run, bare feet thumping on the cold bunker floor as they lead you to the garage. You’re smaller than Dean but you’re also quicker, plus you’re fuelled by the insanity of the situation.

Your van is still there. Thank god. Or whatever deity is shining down on your right now. And it’s unlocked another win. You slip inside and cram your fingers into the little storage thing under the steering wheel where you usually hide the keys. When the metal stabs you there’s not even a flinch, you’re all quick motions and even quicker decisions. You need to get the hell out of this fever dream and back to the real world.

“Woah, woah, woah. Where do you think you’re going?” He’s caught up, arms crossed and standing in front of your van in a pair of his sweats, and nothing else. But it’s ok because he’s a figment of your imagination, you can run him down and nothing will happen.

The keys turn in the ignition, once, twice, three times and clearly she’s dead.

He doesn’t at all seem concerned that you were about to plow through him. His next sentence, and the shit-eating grin tell you why, “how far did you think you’d get with half an engine? Just ballpark it for me.”

“Fuck.” You mutter as you fall forward and your forehead slams into the steering wheel. You can feel your heartbeat start to steady after your great escape. While the panic is subsiding, the confusion isn’t. This made, literally, no sense.

The door opens, and Dean uses your knees to swing you around in the seat, so your legs hang over the side facing him, “and no shoes? What’s going on baby?”

He’s worried and you’re so close to slipping into this fantasy with him. It’s Dean. And a crazy dream or not you know his tone when he’s concerned. All you want to do is ease his mind and tell him everything is ok except nothing is ok. You woke up in Dean’s bed, or your bed… you woke up _with_ Dean.

You should tell him about the cave, right? It’s the last thing you remember, being lost in the darkness there and then waking up here, safe and sound in the bunker. Although the more you think about it the stupider you feel. _Oh, hey Dean my life is too perfect so maybe we should investigate_. What an idiot. Maybe the cave was just a nightmare, you had nightmares all the time especially after a bad hunt. Why are you programmed so that this better version of your life is the one that feels wrong?

It is wrong though. You can’t shake it. Even while you’re so close to Dean’s face that you think you’ll finally have a shot at counting his freckles, or at least you can try.

You take a breath. A deep, calming, rattling breath. It’s not enough but for now, at least, you’re not going anywhere.

You just had to explain yourself out of this mess and then get to work, “sorry. I- I had a bad dream and I panicked. But I’m good now, really.”

You must put on a good show; his change is instant. The crease in his forehead melts away and his hands cup your cheeks bringing you in for a kiss.

It doesn’t feel like a first kiss. It feels like the first kiss today maybe but not the first time you’ve felt his lips on yours. It’s quick and chaste and it’s familiar, like home. Monsters couldn’t fake that surely. How you know that if you bite your lips after he’ll dive in for another kiss before he can bring himself to pull away.  

“C’mon, best thing for a nightmare is bacon.”

* * *

You’re trying to play it cool while Dean shuffles about the kitchen making you breakfast as if he does that a lot. The surprise when he makes your coffee exactly how you like it has to be schooled into appreciation. You can’t be shocked when he kisses your forehead at the same time as a plate is dropped in front of you.

All that practice flies out of the window when bigfoot wanders into the kitchen.

Sam has a freaking beard. Your jaw is now a distant memory because it got smashed when it hit the floor.

He looks at you like you’re being weird, which you probably are since he clearly didn’t grow that overnight, it’s just so _bushy_. It’s more than the extended scruff both of them have worn at some point, it’s a full-blown beard. And knowing Sam’s hair care regime you can just bet he has pomade or beard oil or something to keep it groomed. Not that it doesn’t suit him but it’s just not your Sam.

“You ok there Y/N?”

You shake your head like that will somehow erase what is standing in front of you, it doesn’t, “yeah, yeah sorry. Just, not really with it this morning.”

Dean doesn’t even look up as he responds, “she probably saw a tick in that thing you hobo.”

“Dude, you can’t still be jealous of all this?” Sam gestures proudly to his facial hair.

Now there’s bacon in Dean’s mouth when he replies, and you find it oddly fascinating that he manages to structure words at all, “Jealous? Pssh. I’m just following orders.”

He hikes a thumb in your direction which makes you scrunch your face in confusion. You apparently told Dean he couldn’t grow a beard and even stranger, he listened? This universe got weirder and weirder.

A full-on alternate universe was still totally an option in your head.

Sam is so distracted by squabbling with Dean that he forgets about you looking at him like you’ve never seen his hairy face before. Dean is so distracted by bacon that he doesn’t notice that you only eat half of your breakfast. Well, until he eats the other half. And neither of them pick up on the way you stare off into the distance whenever you’re not required to talk.

“Any new hits on Kelly? Cas find anything yet?” You figure it’s a safe bet since it’s something you frequently discuss at breakfast.

It’s their turn to look confused as Dean answers, “Cas is a little busy to be picking up chicks.”

The words feel wrong as they come out but you power through anyway, “What? I’m talking about Kelly Kline. The woman Lucifer treated like an incubator?”

Sam’s eyes harden at the mention of Lucifer, if only for the smallest of seconds.

“Sweetheart are you sure you’re ok? You’re not making any sense today.” Dean’s voice gets especially stern as he continues, “Lucifer is back in the cage. We were both there when he was sent back.”

If you close your eyes you can see the memory like he tells it, standing with Dean and watching Lucifer get sent back, going to hell to make sure of it. Even though you’d swear you can remember chasing him all over the country, he was president, and then a rock star that Sam has a secret crush on. And Kelly Kline was in the wind and pregnant with his child.

“Woah Y/N? You spaced out for a minute. Now _I’m_ starting to worry.” Sam says as if he hasn’t caused enough trouble this morning with his face.

You hold a hand to your head to feign a headache in the hopes it’ll explain your behavior. “Yeah. Just a really vivid dream. Don’t worry about me, I’m going to go take a shower.”

They let you go and you don’t dwell on the fact that the shampoo isn’t the same one you could have sworn you bought last week.

* * *

You’re sitting on your laptop after finally figuring out, or remembering, the password. As much as you want to treat this like a hunt there’s this weight in your gut that tells you not to tell Sam or Dean. You couldn’t explain the cave if you tried. Instead, you convince yourself that it’ll be good practice maybe. It’s been years since you did all of this on your own, even longer still since you did it in secret.

The obvious place to start is the Wendigo since that’s what you were hunting. You’re not surprised when there’s nothing about them creating dreams it’s just important to rule out the impossible first.

Then it’s a shot in the dark. Anything to do with dreams or alternate universes. At one point you almost think it’s a trickster except you’re not a dick. At least you don’t think you’re a dick. Also, there’s the little fact that this is some sort of ideal world, not a tricky nightmare.

You’re starting to appreciate the joys of working with Sam, he loves this part, when Dean struts in like it’s his domain. Which you guess it is since you’re leaning against his, your, headboard.

“You’re not hiding from me, right baby?”

You snap the laptop shut and smile maniacally at him, “me? Hiding? From you? Don’t be ridiculous… Dean-y?”

He pulls a face which, in no uncertain terms, tells you he’s on to your game. “Yeah. ‘Cause that’s not weird and suspicious.”

Whatever he thinks might be going on doesn’t deter him from his current plan of action. He takes your laptop and slides it onto the desk in one fluid movement, and then he’s there. All deliberate and agonizingly slow, and that’s just his body covering yours. He hasn’t actually touched you yet, “gonna tell me what’s going on?”

You can feel it happen. The seconds that slip through your fingers, that you’ll never get back and never want back. The missing moments that shorten your lifespan as your heart skips a beat. Every time it stops your whole body freezes for an infinitesimal amount of time. That’s your bodies reaction to each piece of Dean that floods your senses. The heat of his body above yours, the way he presses the air down around you and fuck, when he finally does touch you, just a brush of fingers tracing the curve of your neck, it’s electricity starting your heart up all over again.

“Don’t know what you mean.” The lie slips out as breathy as a wannabe pornstar.

He grins, probably at your voice and not your words, pushing his smile into the exact spot his fingers leave. There and only there. “I know you’re lying baby. You’ve been weird since you woke up and you’ve been hiding from me all day.” He whispers into your sweet spot and you buzz like being caught is a kink. Maybe it is, you have no idea who you are anymore. All you know is these feelings you’ve harbored for Dean, tucked safely away in the deepest corners, they’re on fire. You want this, him, you always have. As long as you’ve known Dean you’ve felt something and now you’re really _feeling_ him.

Who says you can’t let yourself have this? Who says he isn’t yours to have?

You bring a hand up to his face and hold his solid jaw beneath your fingers. How many times had you imagined this? Or had you ever? The lines are blurry, and Dean isn’t. Dean is grounded and drawn in ink even if the rest of the world is sketched in pencil. “I’m not hiding. And I’m not being weird… anymore.”

He seems to believe that. His cocky smirk at catching you hiding something turns into a genuine smile like he’s pleased to have found something he’d lost. That’s when he kisses you. This isn’t a chaste, sleepy reassurance after you tried to run away. This kiss is claiming. He’s all teeth and tongue, right on that line between deliberate and out of control, he’s hungry and it’s for you.

And you love every goddamn second of it. You moan into his mouth and he swallows the sound as if it’s all he needs to live. You wrap your arms around his neck, just so you have something to hold onto, something to keep you together. This feels like a first kiss, and a second, and the thousandth. You can taste how much he loves you making it’s impossible not to chase his lips even when your lungs burn for oxygen.

He loves you. And you love him. How could this be a lie? It’s everything. It’s all those things you never thought you’d have in your life before you met them. And it’s all the things you ever imagined you’d be able to have after you met him. It’s happening and it’s real.

The other world must be the nightmare. The world steeped in pain and confusion is the creation of your mind, there’s no other explanation for the trail of intense heat he leaves everywhere his fingers touch.

“We’ve not done that for a while.” His forehead is pressed to yours while you both remember what it is to breathe.

Your smile almost breaks your face as you look up at him through your lashes, “what? Kissed each other till we almost die?”

He dips his head to bite your bottom lip but it’s all teasing, done with laughter and lightness, “yeah, we haven’t almost died in a while.”

“Kissing or otherwise?”

“Both,” he rasps, finally recovered enough to do it all again. This time with his hands roaming your body, unable to decide where to land.

* * *

“African dream root?”

Sam’s voice comes from somewhere above your head since he’s snuck up on you, reading over your shoulder. There’s no time to slam the book in front of you, it’s too late, so you’ll just have to see where this goes.

“Yeah, you guys have used it right?” You try your best to keep your tone even and not too eager for information.

He sits down opposite you with a cup of coffee and his laptop. So far, so good. “Yeah. A couple of times. Why are you reading up on it?”

Sam was probably the safest bet to have a conversation like this with. For how suspicious he could be, he was still a nerd. He loved being right and inserting random information into any discussion. Therefore, if there was anyone who might be able to help you without realizing he’s helping _you_ , it’s Sam. Besides Dean’s presence made you want to stop investigating all together so Sam might be your only hope.

“I was reading a men of letters case about a woman having nightmares, like full on alternate reality nightmares. They never solved it, so I thought I’d try and figure it out while we had some time.”

After a questioning glance, he seems to buy it with a shrug of one shoulder and a classic Sam frown. “How did she die? That normally narrows it down.”

Of course. How did she die? Because most people who tussle with something weird or monster-y, without intervention, die. But you’re still here, still standing. There’s something obvious you’re missing, why were you ok? You feel like the answer is staring you in the face but you’re missing it.

“I didn’t read that far, just thought I’d look into the nightmare reality thing.”

He’s reading something of his own now, only half listening to you, “sure, sure. Could be a wraith maybe, infecting the victim, making them think they’re having nightmares.”

“I thought of that but there were no signs of being fed on.”

He gets completely lost in his laptop then and only offers and, “hmmm” in response. It’s not unusual for him to get sucked into something like that so you return to the books laid out in front of you. Scanning the words quickly hoping something jumps out. It’s a comfortable silence that sits between you. You mouth the words to yourself as you comprehend them, and Sam’s furrowed brow intensifies the more he reads.

“You’ve hunted a Djinn before, right?”  
“I think I’ve found us a case.”

There’s this understanding smile you both share at having broken the silence in unison and he motions a hand for you to go first.

“A djinn? You’ve hunted one before? I never have.”

“It wouldn’t be a Djinn. They don’t cause nightmares.” If you were looking at him instead of the information your finger is running over then you might have noticed the edge to his face. As it is, you were still reading while you spoke.

“It says here that…”

“It’s not a djinn. They grant wishes.”

This time you notice the hardness of his voice, the insistence. You look up at him and cock your head slightly, trying to work something out but you’re not sure what the question is. “They only pretend to grant wishes, though right? It’s all in the victim’s head?”

His nostrils flare a little as he inhales a deep breath and grinds out his answer, “sure. But they don’t create nightmares so it’s not a djinn ok?”

The tension rolling off of him hits you, his behavior becoming another of those clues you’re going to have to piece together. But not right now. Right now, you find yourself compelled to change the subject, “ok. Tell me about the hunt.”

He visibly relaxes at your words. The stiffness you hadn’t seen in his shoulders melts and his lips curl ever so slightly before he launches into this explanation of the dead victims, or whatever the case is.

You’re not totally listening because you can’t get the description of the djinn, cave dwelling and fantasy creating monster, out of your head.

* * *

The night is crisp and dry, the perfect weather conditions to kill something. Your gun is full of silver and a silver knife is tucked into your jeans, but neither shines quite like the moon tonight. Full and round and perfect to be howled at.

There’s nothing like a good werewolf hunt. You already know it’ll be hard and dangerous but with three people already relieved of their hearts, the kill will be so, so worth it.

This werewolf has a pattern, however. Women. Specifically, women who are alone at night in this particular part of town. So, you’re assuming it’s a man in the harsh light of day because typical.

It’s not your first time playing bait and it won’t be your last. You have an outfit for the occasion. Tighter jeans than normal, a top cut low enough for werewolves and vamps alike to be interested, a clutch concealing your gun. If you couldn’t feel the metal of your knife against your skin then you might be convinced that you’re normal and walking home from a bar after a night out.

You’re well practiced in how to occasionally look like you’re stumbling. You keep your phone in your hand and giggle into it occasionally. But you know the deal, it’s all fake. Your guard is up the entire time and when your phone does flash it’s Sam or Dean with assurances that they still have eyes on you. Dean adds a few choice words about those jeans and your ass, so maybe just the giggles aren’t completely fake.

It takes a while, but you don’t fail in luring what you’re dangling yourself in front of.

You’ve just walked out of your fifth alley at the edge of town when you hear the shuffle behind you. A kicked can maybe. Not a mistake either of the boys would make on a hunt like this. Your ears wait to confirm it’s the wind but then you hear it, the low growl. Still playing along, phone still unlocked in your hand, your thumb manages to type **_it’s_ _here_** knowing they’ll get the message. That’s before you start running.

The plan was always to lead it away from the streets and into the park. That’s always the plan, maybe not the park part, but you always lead the monster away from people. Give it only you as an option and then kill it without distraction. It’s always the plan because the plan keeps people safe, and it works for a reason. Werewolves like this, dictated by the full moon, are nothing more than animals.

Obviously, your outfit hadn’t included heels because you don’t hate yourself, so running is easy, but you still hear it behind you, almost keeping pace even with how much of a head start you had. Your phone is thrown into the grass to find later, the bag gone too once your gun is in your hand. It’s when you hit the gravel path that something leaps out of the trees to your left.

That’s how you find out there’s two of them.

You tumble sideways without time to brace yourself before your body hits the floor, you’re covered by the weight that knocked you over. The sticks and stones you land on may break your bones but the thing on your chest is trying to kill you.

By thing you mean werewolf. It swipes at you from the small amount of space you’re managing to create with your outstretched arms, its claws meet your cheek and then the top of your chest, the exposed skin you were using as bait is now home to a cut that weeps blood. The slices sting but they’re not as bad as you’ll be if you don’t get up from the floor and grab either weapon. The blade at your back or the gun that has fallen a foot above your head.

It’s only when the other one, the one that had been chasing you, catches up that your brain comprehends enough to actually count them. And then contemplate where the fuck the boys were.

You don’t have time to wait. The longer you wait the deader you’ll be but here’s where all that hunting pays off. It’s not panic that floods your system, it’s stone cold adrenalin. And all that training? Well, you may not be a werewolf, but your muscles are more than ready for a fight.

You bend your legs into your body and lower the werewolf snarling on top of you as you bend your arms too. Just enough to give yourself the leverage to push it back with all four of your limbs. It doesn’t go far but far enough. It’s too dark to find your gun in the split second you have but you know where your silver knife is. Just like that your feet are planted firmly on the ground, knife in one curled fist and a yell your from your throat while you still have it, “BOYS!?”

“Y/N!” You can’t spare the mental agility to try and work out the direction it comes from, but it’s accompanied by the heavy thuds of pounding feet. They’re coming and when they get here these full moon fucks will be outnumbered.

“THERE’S TWO OF THEM!”

Best to warn them what they’re running into you suppose as you take steps back, both of them are trying to surround you now but moving backward doesn’t let one of them get behind you. At least that’s the best plan you have until they both pounce.

You’ve fought off one werewolf before but two at the same time is like, what you imagine, going toe to toe with Muhammed Ali is, unrelenting. For every swipe of your silver that makes one of them hiss and back up the other is there clawing at you. They’re wearing you down slowly but surely and they know it, even if you are getting your own licks in.

It’s sheer luck that you cut one of them deep enough to make them jump away more than a few steps, it gives you the precious minute you need to block the other one from tearing your heart out. You stumble, fall to the ground again tripping over your own feet, but you’re alive.

“Y/N!” only Dean appears, gun raised and ready to shoot but werewolf recovery time is next to nothing. They jump decisively, both going for Dean. Apparently, you’d keep while they took out this new target.

Dean unloads every bullet in his gun between them both, lighting up the night with each squeeze of his trigger. The nearest werewolf falls to the ground with a melancholy howl that you might find sympathetic if it wasn’t for the cuts and blood marring your body. But then there’s the second one. Dean’s shots land but it’s dark and werewolves are fast. None of them make it to his chest.

You both realize that it isn’t dead yet too late.

You start running but you’re too slow. Dean reaches for his knife but the werewolf is too fast.

He’s knocked back like you had been, flat on his back with the weight of the thing knocking the air from him. You’re not worried though, even without his knife Dean is stronger than you, smarter than you. He’ll be fine you think, even as you will your legs to move faster, sucking in one big gulp of air to carry you the rest of the way.

There’s a lot of sounds in that park at that particular moment. The footfall of Sam finally catching up from his position, the growl of the werewolf on top of Dean, the thump of your blood in your ears. One noise cuts through the rest, amplified above everything, the sound of slicing skin.

Your last step is a jump, knife swinging through the air and landing soundly through the beast’s chest. It freezes but that’s not enough for you now. You pull back and kick him away from Dean, plunging the knife through the front of his chest, again and again until you’re splattered in a veil of werewolf blood.

It’s stopped moving now and you know at some point it became human again. You kept stabbing without regret. Only when it’s not twitching anymore do you look at Dean who coughs. It’s so normal that you momentarily forget the sound of claws cutting through skin.

“Dean! Don’t move.” It’s a simple command and he follows it, when you kneel by his head you work out he didn’t have a choice. You’ve not even looked at his wounds yet but his face isn’t his normal injured grimace, it’s oddly peaceful.

“Sweetheart,” he coughs again, this time you’re close enough to see he’s coughing blood. “I’m sorry.”

“What? Don’t be stupid, where are you hurt?” He doesn’t need to answer because his shirt is torn to shreds and forever stained red.

Sam appears at the other side of him as you’re lifting the tatters of material, he’s in time to see his brothers guts almost on the outside. Even in the middle of the night, you can see how mangled Dean is and logically somewhere in your brain you know, there’s nothing that you or anyone could do for him. That’s not what your heart says, or your mouth.

“Sam what have you got on you? We need to… fuck we need to fix this.”

Sam isn’t listening to a word you say. Not while he’s begging his brother not to die. Whispered promises that barely make it past the tears that glisten on his face. He’s so close to Dean that you can’t hear a word either of them says, but it’s the sight of them that starts you on your own journey believing.

“No,” denial shakes your head and widens your eyes. This isn’t happening, this can’t be happening. He’s Dean fucking Winchester, he doesn’t end like this.

“Baby?” God, it aches to look at him as his voice draws you in. He sounds broken and exhausted, and he’s so quiet. You lean in still disbelieving, still refusing the truth, but needing to hear him.

“Dean we need to get you to a hospital.” You match his volume with a hand on his face, thumb catching his tears, maybe if you’re gentle with him he’ll let you move him, save him.

The best he can he laughs at you although it’s the least happy sound in existence. It’s this ghost of a laugh. “I’m not going to a hospital baby.”

“I hate to break it to you but you’re not dying on me so yes you are.”

“Sorry to disappoint you gorgeous.” That’s what does you in. You can hear the genuine regret in his voice for letting you down and that’s when you understand what’s happening in front of your face.

Your face falls to his, his skin is too clammy for the chilly night. It’s not his usual Dean warmth, it’s the sticky heat of death.

“You can’t leave me. I just- I just got here.” What makes you say it, then, you’ll never know.

“I’ve had five years of you baby, best five years of my life. And to think, I almost walked away that night you kissed me.”

That makes you smile even though it shouldn’t, “I almost didn’t kiss you.”

“With this face? I’m offended.” There’s a smile on his lips to tell you even now, at the edge of his existence, he’s joking. “I don’t tell you enough how much I love you.” He can’t move, you know that, so you press your lips to his like you know he wants to. One last taste of him mingled with the salty tang of tears and an aftertaste of copper.

“I love you Dean, always have.” The words are breathed into his mouth before you lean back taking his hand in yours. Sam has the other. Nothing else is uttered as you both watch the life fade from his eyes. It’s otherworldly. One moment he’s there, he’s Dean, he’s a final squeeze of your fingers. Then he’s gone. Then he’s a lifeless body on the floor that you can’t seem to let go of.

You sit there drenched in blood holding him until your knees ache and only then do you dare to peel your eyes away and look at Sam.

“When does he come back? How will we know?” Because he’s a Winchester and they are never dead for long.

Sam’s face couldn’t be more heartbreaking. It’s scrunched in pain so tightly he may never smile again, and he’s cried more than you from the shine of his cheeks, and yet through that confusion reflects in his eyes.

“I don’t- I don’t think he’s coming back this time.”

* * *

To say you were not processing or dealing with Dean’s death was the understatement of the century. You’ve been in bed for two weeks, the only time you got up was when Cas arrived but once he confirmed Dean was actually dead and there was nothing he could do you’d returned straight back into the sheets that still smelled of him. The whole room still smelled like him actually. So much so that at any moment you expected him to walk in the door and tell you he’d made breakfast.

He didn’t.

A week into your confinement and Sam starts bringing you food. A few days of you not touching it and he sits with you and forces you to eat, not that he looks much better himself but he insists that he won’t let you starve yourself. He doesn’t say the words out loud but you can practically hear the ‘ _it’s not what Dean would want_ ’ that rattles around his head. It’s after two full weeks that he comes and lays with you. As soon as he does his face melts into something, recognition maybe, or understanding. He gets why you won’t leave.

This room is all you have left now to mask the hollow void you’ve become, and Sam needs a reminder. That night you both fall asleep surrounded by the last vestiges of Dean Winchester.

When you wake up with the now usual amount of unhappiness you now harbor, for each morning that you open your eyes, you see Sam snoring into Dean’s pillow. You want to kick him out, tell him that Dean will be mad, as if he’s still alive, but there’s another thought that pops into your head and refuses to leave.

Sam’s beard.

For the first time in two weeks, you spring upwards with purpose. It’s like a lightning bolt hits you and switches everything back on. There’s no real explanation other than you know what you need to do.

By the time Sam wakes up you’re not only dressed in actual clothes, but you’re packed and ready to leave. Once you know how to do it of course. You’re not going all of that way without knowing how to kill the thing.

“Y/N? What are you…?” Sam yawns rubbing his eyes as he wanders into the library.

“I was trying to figure it out for myself, but I guess I can ask you. How do I kill a Djinn?”

He freezes which might explain why he sounds like ice, “what?”

“A djinn. You said you’d hunted one before. I can’t find the lore on how to kill it.” You’re so focused and matter of fact that you don’t match his dismay with the last time you talked about this.

“Why do you think you need to kill a djinn?”

The sigh that comes out of you is annoyed and frustrated at being slowed down, “because I think I can save Dean. I think a djinn got me on a hunt a few weeks back and I think if I go and kill it I’ll get out of this and Dean will be alive.”

“You think a djinn got you and the wish you’re living out is Dean dying?”

“No, the wish was me kissing him! It doesn’t matter, he’s not dead I just need to get out of here. How do I kill it?” You’re standing now, hand on your hip, ready to go and take your freedom and Dean’s life back. You’re so ready to see Dean again that you’re still not accurately reading Sam’s lack of help for what it is.

“You can’t go, you haven’t eaten properly in weeks, you need to get your strength and…”

“I need to go and kill the djinn, Sam. Now tell me how to do it!”

His face becomes darker, edgier as he bites back at you, “you can’t save Dean. Not when it’s your fault he’s dead.”

For a second, you’re back in that park feeling exactly what Sam is saying, that it’s your fault.

“What? Why would you say that?” You take a step back even though there’s a table between you. Sam would never say that so _why_ is Sam saying that?

He steps around the table like it’s not even there, his expression is cold and indifferent to your fear as he advances. “You can’t save Dean because this is your life Y/N. This isn’t in your head, this is the world we have to live in. You wanted Dean and you had him, and then you got him killed when he had to come and save you.”

You’ve tried not to think about that since you decided hours ago that it was a djinn you’re looking for. You didn’t know enough about them to know for sure, but you’ve been praying against everything Sam is saying. What if it is a permanent wish? What if there’s no going back?

“You’re not Sam. Sam wouldn’t say this, he…”

His smile is a haunting mix of miserable and malicious. He leans in with it stuck to his face and whispers a guarantee, “I would say it if you’re the reason my brother is dead.”

You don’t know how you see far enough to make it out of the room with the tears that have sprung to your eyes, but you manage. You know if you’re right then that isn’t Sam, it’s the djinn protecting itself but if you’re wrong then Sam really just said those words to you.

You’re hell bent now on making it back to that cave and finding out one way or another. If it’s empty then your life is over, you’ve lost Dean and now Sam. You had it too good for too long and you’re not sure you could go back to your life before the Winchesters if you tried. If the djinn is there then your life is still over, just this shitty version of it where Dean is dead.

Either way, you take the keys to Baby, because fuck Sam that’s why, and you barely manage to wipe the tears from your face as you drive her out of the bunker garage, where she’s sat for the past two weeks.

* * *

You’ve driven for six hours straight when it starts to happen. Your vision randomly flashes with darkness. Just for a second. Like a blink except your eyes aren’t closed. A flash of nothing and then the road is in front of you again.

It starts off sporadic but after a while, it starts to increase in frequency until you’re pulling over because you can see more darkness than anything else. You rub at your eyes and try blinking, but nothing works, nothing stops the oncoming whatever it is, until you close your eyes and hear him.

That voice you’d know anywhere, Dean.

“Are you sure this is going to work Sammy? That wasn’t our regular breed of asshole djinn.”

“I’m not sure of anything, but we’ve got to try it. You getting a pulse?”

“Yeah. It’s faint but it’s there. I think she nearly-”

You can feel two fingers at your neck then, you didn’t feel them press against you but you notice the absence when they’re taken away. There’s something sharp in your arm too that’s pulled out carefully after a moment.

Suddenly your eyes, that had been open and driving minutes ago feel like they’re glued together. Opening them seems like the biggest struggle you’ve ever faced for how heavy they are. You’re determined to see though. You need to see him.

Slowly you manage it. Your eyes flutter and wobble but they open, and you practically feel your pupils dilate for how dim the light is. Not that you’re complaining. It’s enough to see the very much alive face of one Dean Winchester, currently staring at you with a smile that could consume him.

“There’s my girl. Knew you wouldn’t give up on me yet.”

It’s like breathing for the first time in weeks or your vision returning to normal after staring directly into the sun.

Your throat is croaky from disuse and every part of you from the top of your head to the tips of your toes throbs. You’re leaning against a cold cave wall and the camp lights they’re using cast a sinister glow over everything, but it might just be the happiest you’ve felt in forever. You try to let out a ‘ha’ but what comes out is choked, dry noise. You want to say so many things. He’s the one who died and left you. You love him. Sam don’t grow a beard it’ll turn you into a dick.

All you manage, all that feels like a sufficient summation, “never told me about djinns, huh?”


End file.
